


The Music Box

by Carmexgirl



Category: None - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Horror, Other, Psychological Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-11
Updated: 2012-09-11
Packaged: 2017-11-14 01:30:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmexgirl/pseuds/Carmexgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An old music box contains a terrifying secret</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Music Box

**Author's Note:**

> For Claire.

I have always had a fascination with old antique shops. I would spend hour upon hour exploring every inch, every corner, drawer, cupboard and box, absolutely fascinated about what could potentially lie within them. Fortunately my wife shared my passion; it was how we’d fallen in love after all, both being regular patrons of Curios, a vast sprawling shop that sold everything from old microscopes to red telephone boxes. Our hands touched whilst searching in a vast drawer of old foreign coins, and since then we had never looked back.

It seemed fitting, therefore, that we would be there on our first anniversary, looking for a suitable item to mark the occasion. I was lost in a room of tallboys, pianos and writing desks while she had taken the other route, in amongst binoculars, ancient cameras with indecipherable instructions and boxes upon boxes with mysterious contents just waiting to be opened and explored.

 

“William,” she called, and I instantly ran to her side, hearing the excitement in her voice. She held a wooden box in her hand, plain, evidently old, and relatively unremarkable. At my confused look she opened it, her beautiful eyes bright with excitement. It was then I knew why she was so enamoured with it.

The box was lined with a deep red velvet. Patches had faded slightly, and the corners had filled with dust. The lid was similarly lined, though in the centre sat a mirror, corroded at the edges and covered with a film of age and dust so thick you couldn’t see anything reflected in it. The box was split into two, with the second half containing the most interesting thing. A mechanism, oxidised and stiff, frozen in time. A large cylinder with spikes, sitting near to a series of metal prongs linked to a series of cogs. The rust, for want of a better description, which pervaded the cylinder, had stiffened the cogs so they were unmoveable. 

A music box. Old and tired, and needing a lot of care, but a music box all the same.

“Is it salvageable?” My wife asked. As I examined it, I could see nothing in there that was beyond repair. “Absolutely,” I replied, and her smile broadened.

“Look at the price. I mean, this must be over 100 years old yet they’re asking less than £100.”

It was true. Less than £100 for something of that age was a bargain, and reflected the condition it was in. As I looked into my wife’s eyes it became clear that she had indeed made her choice; that this box, with a little engineering skill and some tender loving care, would be our anniversary present.

I negotiated the price down to £85, factoring in the hours it would take to fix it. Presently, it was wrapped up, bagged, and on its way to our house, much to my wife’s excitement.

It was a few weeks before I could actually sit down to look at the thing properly, work having taken over both of our lives somewhat. In fact, my wife’s employment had become so stressful it seemed to be taking its toll on her health, something which I monitored closely.

It was one Saturday while my wife was out for a well-earned day of shopping and a meal with friends that I actually ventured into the spare room where the box was sitting. I sat down at my desk, and looked at it closely. The wood was a rich red in colour, which led me to believe that it was probably mahogany. A few flecks of white paint dotted the top of it, but were easily scratched off by my nails without damaging the wood. The hinges were brass and though stiff, were moveable with all screws intact. All in all, barring an inch long scratch on one wide, the box was in fairly good condition. The inside was a different story though, which led me to believe that this box had been open and used frequently before being left to decay.

I started on the mechanism, as this would be the biggest job. Everything needed to be taken apart, cleaned and lubricated before being put back in the right order. It was a painstaking occupation, taking everything apart and laying it out methodically on my desk so I knew how to put it back together. I took a cloth, dipped it in cleaner and started to clean every single little bit. Gradually, the green oxidisation disappeared to reveal a gleaming brass mechanism, one that would be in perfect working order once assembled.

I spent hours carefully cleaning the mechanism, making sure every single part of it was free from dirt. I considered the intricate machinery to be a work of art, and I wanted to treat it with the reverence it deserved. As well as that, the look on my wife’s face when I managed to get it in perfect working order would be worth all the labour in the world.

Finally after a week of cleaning, the mechanism was ready to be reassembled. My hands were as steady as anything as I put the pieces together, each one set in perfect alignment. It took all of one Saturday to get everything just right, every cog in place and moving properly. It was a job that demanded precision, and my concentration was such that I found myself holding my breath occasionally for fear of the movement causing my hand to shake. Eventually, everything was in place, and I began to wind up the mechanism, my stomach fluttering with excitement.

The fly wheel started spinning at a tremendous rate, which in turn caused a cog to move, turning a drive shaft leading to another, larger cog. This movement continued, turning an even bigger cog that led to the brass cylinder. Along the cylinder where a series of strategically placed spiked, and I looked on as it started to turn, spikes catching the metal prongs as the tune began to play.

I’d caught it in the middle of the song, so I couldn’t quite recognise it at first. As started from the beginning, I began to hum the tune along.

“Oh, how we danced  
On the night we were wed.  
We vowed our true love,  
Though a word wasn’t said.”

It was an old song, one I remember my grandmother singing years ago. The arrangement in the music box had a slightly haunting, melancholy quality, just the bare tune with a few runs up and down the C minor scale at the end of a phrase. The whole mechanism was pretty quiet, and I looked at ways to try and amplify the sound but found none. As I wound it up again, I decided to rest it in the box to see how it would fit. I found that as the sound resonated through the wood it magnified tenfold, making it more than loud enough.

The song seemed to permeate the very walls of the house, infusing it with a deep and penetrating sorrow. As the song played, I found myself sitting, staring at nothing but the mechanism that slowly turned and added to the sense of despair.

It was a strange sensation, and one I shook off as soon as the mechanism ran out of energy. I decided not to show my wife, preferring to keep everything under wraps until I had completely finished and she could see the box in all its glory. I went to bed that night, but found my sleep was fitful. The song rattled through my head as though it had taken over a part of my brain and refused to let go. I dreamt I was in a room, deep blue in colour with the music box playing in the corner. In the middle of the room stood a man and a woman, holding each other close and swaying to the music as it played. I couldn’t control the scene, merely observed it from some unseen corner, but something about the couple made me feel rather uneasy. As I looked closer, I noted that the man held the woman far too tight, like he was holding a frightened bird that could fly away at any moment. The woman for her part was not moving of her own accord, but instead was being steered this way and that. Their faces never looked at each other, merely stared over each other’s shoulders. The song continued to play, over and over again as the two lovers (for that is what I assumed them to be) moved together. It was as though they, like the music, were stuck in an endless loop, destined to dance over and over again for as long as it played.

Presently, the music stopped. The couple disappeared and I found myself wide awake with the sunlight streaming through by bedroom window. I turned to see my wife who lay beside me. She looked deathly pale, and when I roused her she shivered uncontrollably.

“Are you ok?” I asked, stroking her forehead.

“I don’t…I don’t feel terribly well,” she said. “There’s something going round I think, and it’s just my luck to catch it on top of everything else.”

I leaned over and kissed her on the forehead, which felt clammy to the touch. “Stay in bed, darling,” I said. “I’ll make breakfast and a hot drink. You can lie here all day and wait for the worst to pass.”

She nodded, drawing the bedcovers around herself and settling down further into the bed.

After breakfast, and while my wife went back to sleep, I again looked at the music box. I played the tune again for a short while, watching as the brass cylinder turned and its spokes struck the metal prongs. The mechanism really was a beautiful thing to behold, so much so that it seemed a shame to hide it inside the box. My thoughts turned to perhaps creating some kind of glass lid so it could be viewed, but reasoned that it would dull the sound. It would have to be my secret, I thought. Only I would know the beauty beneath the red velvet.

That reminded me. My next task was to clean the box outside and in, and tackle the occluded mirror. I had a mind to sand the whole thing down first, varnish it, and polish it. This would take time, but I felt it would be worth it. Knowing my wife was fast asleep, I wandered downstairs and outside into the garden. At the bottom I had a small workshop, mainly for various household repairs, but I knew I had some sandpaper that would do the job quite well.

I began to sand, taking off the top layer of paint and grime until the bare mahogany lay underneath. I sanded around the whole box, even flattening out the dent in the side so it was less visible, though not completely gone. Presently I heard my name called, and dropped my tools. As I looked back towards the house, I saw the image of my wife at the back door, standing in her nightgown. Her hair fell in messy tendrils about her head, and her eyes were glassy. I walked over to her, put my arms around her and bid her go back to bed.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said.

“It’s a fever,” I replied, stroking her head. “I’ll call the doctor and see if he can’t come and help you. You must get back to bed though. Keep yourself warm.”

She nodded, and I took her upstairs. After she had settled, I called the doctor who came within the hour. He diagnosed some sort of virus, prescribed some medication and told me to make sure she drank plenty of water. He left, and I noticed my wife looked more relaxed, relieved that it was merely a fever that would break in time.

As my wife slept, I managed to varnish the outside of the box and leave it to dry overnight. Pleased with the day’s efforts, I prepared dinner before retiring to bed, kissing my sleeping wife on the forehead.

Again, I was struck by the same dream as the night before. The blue room, the music box playing its melancholy tune as the two lovers danced. The same uneasiness came over me as I watched them together, the woman still being held too tight and practically dragged this way and that. This time I could make out details on their faces. The man’s eyes were sunken and seemed to have dark circles around them; his nose was prominent and pointed, his lips thin and set into a firm line across his face. The woman was rather plain looking, with dark hair pulled up into a bun, thin strands hanging about her face. Her eyes were grey, and seemed only to look directly in front of her as she danced.

The couple still did not look at each other, but as they moved I saw the male whisper something into his lover’s ear, something which made her stiffen even more. Again, the music played on and on until the mechanism unwound itself, and that’s when I woke up.

I looked over to my wife, still peaceful in sleep. She looked pale and drawn, the illness having taken its toll on her. I resolved to leave her to rest, knowing that she would call me if I was needed. Instead I decided to undertake some cleaning before resuming work on the music box.

The box had dried well, and looked in much better condition than when it had been purchased. The varnish had stained the wood a deep red, and with some expert polishing caused it to shine. Again I wound up the mechanism, watching the brass cylinder turn as the music played once more. 

This time as well as the sadness, I was filled with a dire sense of foreboding. I felt that something terrible was going to happen, something horrific, something I couldn’t stop. As the music played on and on, I found my terror worsening to the point that I looked at my hands to find they were shaking with dread.

It was then I heard the scream, and ran like a man possessed to towards the house. I bounded up the stairs to find my wife awake and shaking, breathing heavily.

“Are you ok?” I asked.

“It was…just a nightmare. Nothing more.” She attempted to smile. “I’ll be relieved to feel well again. I cannot take much more of this.”

I gathered her in my arms. “The medication should start working soon, and then you will start to feel like your old self again. I could feel my own heart pounding in my chest.

“I know. I’ve just never been a good patient.”

I held her, but couldn’t shake the notion that she somehow seemed thinner, even though it had only been a two days since she fell ill.

Presently she became tired, so I once more put her to bed. I spent the rest of the day in the house, just in case she had another bad dream, but she slept soundly. 

That night, I had the same dream, no different to the one before. This time I focussed on the lady’s dress, a beautiful azure blue with a high waist and flowing sleeves. It sparkled as it moved, as thought it were covered in crystals of some sort. The dream did not last long, as I woke with a start to find my wife had moved from her resting place. I stood up and searched around the house, eventually finding her in the spare room, pacing back and forth. As I looked at her face I could tell she was still asleep, so I took her arm gently and steered her back to our room and into bed where she rested once more.

Morning came, and I again left her sleeping, tired myself from the night’s activities. I felt strangely drawn to the music box, welcoming the distraction from my wife’s illness, so I brought it back into the house, knowing that now the outside was much improved, the time had come to tackle the inside. 

The red velvet, though faded in places, was fairly clean. With a few wipes of a cotton bud, most of the dirt came away easily and I found I was able to clean the inside fairly easily with impressive results. Looking at the mirror on the underside of the lid, though, I found that would need more attention. It was completely occluded, as though grime had built up in one particular place, concentrating on the cool surface and hanging on for dear life.

I first attempted to wipe the grime away, but found that it was quite sticky, oily and greasy to the touch. A squirt of lemon juice served to cut through the grease, and I found that I could quite successfully wipe the stuff away and get down to the actual glass of the mirror. Using vinegar, I found that I could clear away the rest of the filth, and with a good buffing with a clean cloth, the glass started to shine.

That’s when I saw it. 

It quite shocked me at first. I had to look at it for a few minutes to ensure my brain wasn’t playing tricks on me. Looking in the mirror I saw a face staring back at me. A man, looking at me as though he were standing behind my right shoulder. I looked away from the mirror and behind me, and found no one there. I looked back into the mirror, and there he was.

“H..hello?” I ventured. He said nothing back, just stared at me with cold, unfeeling eyes. I tried to reason with myself, say that there was nothing there, that it may be some imperfection in the glass that my brain had interpreted in to the figure of a man. Again I looked behind me to find no one there; again I looked back to the mirror and saw him still.

I shut the box. I found I didn’t want to look into the mirror any longer. Something about the figure unnerved me, and I got the sense that it was a terrible, evil thing.

Later that evening I went to bed, and again I had the same dream. The music of the box swirling round and round my head, the two dancers dancing slow and precise, the woman with fear etched upon her face as she dared not put a foot wrong. They turned, and I again I saw man’s face, drawn and pale. It was the same as the face in the mirror, exactly the same.

I woke to my wife crying in pain. She was bent over, holding her abdomen and shaking. I held her as she cried, her once beautiful hair hanging limply as she shook. There was nothing I could do at that hour so I shushed her, stroked her hair and told her I would call a doctor first thing in the morning. Eventually, we fell to sleep once more.

The doctor could find nothing wrong so prescribed more pain medication. The tablets were so strong they immediately put her to sleep, so there was nothing else I could do but open that infernal music box. Again, the face stared back at me in the mirror, not so pale, more of a smile and yet definitely the same man from my dream. Again I was filled with the sense that the creature I saw, for thought it looked like a man I could not describe it as such, was malevolent.

“What are you doing?” I said.

He—it—smiled again, but said nothing.

I worked again on the mechanism, giving it a few sprays to lubricate the cogs, and all the while I could feel his eyes watching me. Finally I put the mechanism back in its place, closing the box and despite my better judgement, gave the key a few twists.

As soon as I opened it, the tune started playing. Immediately I again became consumed with a terrible sadness, like a solid weight in my chest that wouldn’t shift. It was as though the colour and life had been sucked out of the room, leaving cold, grey and empty, filled with a wretchedness that would not shift. I stared into the mirror and there the man was smiling, teeth bared. “What do you want?” I asked again. Still nothing. My heart began beating faster, all the while the sense of dread getting stronger and stronger.

“What do you want?” I said, louder that time. Still nothing. The sadness seemed to be overtaking my senses, as though I were in a fit of some sort. I couldn’t take the mood any more, couldn’t stand the sadness and the fear that permeated my very soul. “What do you want!” I screamed.

I picked up the nearest object that wasn’t the music box—a screwdriver—and held it tightly in my hand, ready to smash the mirror and the man that lay within it. “What do you want!” I screamed again, ready to smash the whole thing.

“Nothing from you,” came a voice, cold as steel.

I stopped my madness, put the screwdriver down as my arm shook with fear. “Then what are you doing here?” I managed, though it was in more of a whisper.

“Waiting,” he said, then narrowed his eyes into an expression filled with demonic glee. I instantly shut the box.

It had grown dark, as though time had shifted on whilst I had remained static. It was time for bed, and I resolved to take the infernal box back the next day, to get it and all of its woes out of my house.

I kissed my wife goodnight, and fell into a fitful, unnerving sleep.

Again my dreams centred on the dancing couple, only this time I could not see their faces. The tune played on and on as they danced, getting louder and louder. I woke with a start reaching for my wife who wasn’t there. I sat up, listening for her, but the only thing I could hear was the same haunting tune of my dreams.

I walked downstairs, my legs shaking with every step. I called my wife but my voice was horse and unable to make anything other than a breathy, wheezing sound. The music became louder, the slow haunting melody that taunted me with every step. As I entered the sitting room I saw the box sitting on the floor, lid open and bathed in the blue light of the moon streaming through the window. The key turned of its own accord, the music playing at a slow, even pace.

It was there I saw it. The nightgown by wife had worn, crumpled lifeless on the floor. I could barely breathe as I inched closer, my heart thudding a terrible rhythm in my chest, legs threatening to buckle underneath me as I tried desperately to keep my balance.

I closed my eyes, fell down on bended knee. I did not want to see what was in that godforsaken mirror. I couldn’t bear to see it, yet I knew I needed to open my eyes. I needed to see this through to the end.

As I looking into the mirror I saw the room, the same room as in my dream. The music played on, with the man in the mirror holding on to his lover and dancing, a thin, triumphant smile on his face. As the couple turned, my blood ran ice cold.

Her dress was beautiful; the colour of sapphire adorned with jewels of every sort, with a long skirt that flowed as she moved. Her hair shone, tied up in a tight bun with curls hanging about her face, yet her face looked drawn and thin, eyes with dark circles around them. It was a face filled with absolute and utter terror.

There in the mirror, gripped tightly by the man who stared at me with his evil eye and laughed, was my wife.


End file.
